


Dust

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Indentured Servitude, M/M, Slavery, Strong PG13, unity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2526935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A farm, for the gods' sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mm8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/gifts).



> For mm8!

1:

Dark clouds scudded across a sky tinged rose gold from the setting sun. Odd, that he couldn't feel the wind high above on his face. A pity, because it would also take away the stench of his own unwashed body and clothes, too. All he could hope was to remain upwind of himself. If the wind ever deigned to come lower. 

Then again, maybe in this kind of surrounding, it didn't matter. A farm, for the gods' sake. Not all that far outside of Londinium, but hardly from where he had grown up, and apart from one, far from the other jobs he had been sold on. He shifted, trying to ease the soreness where metal rested on the tops of his feet and ankles. On a sudden breeze, angry voices carried over from the man and woman arguing by the gate. One of them, an I.Lestrade, was his new owner.

"He's all right."

Sherlock glanced at the speaker, a short, intriguingly haired man who wore an easy smile. What was that color even called? It was dark brown, heavily salted, with blond undertones. He wore dark jeans, well broken in but not torn, and a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled all the way down and buttoned at the cuffs. Interesting choice of clothing, given the heat of the day. Sturdy boots completed the outfit, of good quality as befit…a manager. Manager?

"That's the wife," said the other man, ambling to Sherlock's side and joining him in staring at the pair beyond the gate. "She's not around much, these days, for which you can be grateful. Name's Watson, John Watson."

Sherlock allowed John to gaze at him for a few seconds before saying his own name. "Lestrade, Sherlock."

"Nope, your original," replied John with a not-overly friendly shake of his head. He nodded once towards I.Lestrade. "He doesn't like it when you use his name."

Now that was curious. "Why not?"

John shrugged. "Dunno, he just doesn't."

Probably because it reminded I.Lestrade of his children, of whom he had two? Despite the wife's infidelity, she had actually used protection. Or at the time had felt loyal enough to make sure who the father would be. Which spoke well for I.Lestrade. Sherlock looked at his companion again. Confident, competent, psychosomatic limp. A professional of some sort - muscle? No, though to judge by the state of his knuckles, he was a man who could hold his own in a fight.

"You could just ask," said John, giving Sherlock a quick once over. The hint of a smile lay at the corners of his mouth, which startled Sherlock. As did John's next comment.

"Most people who look at me like that only get the one opportunity, so - "

"You were in the Army," replied Sherlock, turning to face him fully. "Your limp is psychosomatic, by the way."

"Yeah, I've been told. And?"

Sherlock blinked. "Invalided out for an injured shoulder, indentured yourself for a family member's debt. You saw it as a practical means to an end and feel no shame for it," he stopped abruptly, waiting for the inevitable blow. The bruises on his back and along his ribs were still fresh, though fading, and while he didn't fancy getting hit on his face, better there than elsewhere. 

"Oh, he's going to love you," said John, grinning. He clapped one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "That's perfect, mate, it really is. Except I'm not indentured, I work for Greg because he hired me."

Damn, there was always something! But - wait, what?

"He's coming, look sharp."

Sherlock spun to face the gate, noting I.Lestrade's annoyed frown, the way his heavy steps raised little clouds of dust as he entered the yard. In fact he was coated with dust from leather boots to knee, where it disappeared into the khaki cloth of his trousers. A man used to hard labour when he wasn't on the job, a man still married, a man who wanted to stay married. A man who made poor choices in women.

"Who the hell are you?" I.Lestrade asked, readjusting the belt around his hips.

"Sherlock Holmes," replied Sherlock, mindful of John's advice. He had finally come to realize that HM.Moran had been right; it was not in his best interest to start off antagonizing the owners, at least not right away. Sherlock would have more than enough time to find the pressure points.

"And?" I.Lestrade looked at John, who was nodding.

"Aye, appears to be all true."

I.Lestrade rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. So tell me, Sherlock."

Sherlock waited for a moment, then asked, "Sir?"

"The deducing. G'on, tell me about this place and what you're going to be doing here."

"I…you run this farm. It's yours, though you weren't born to it. A hundred acres of barley, wheat, and oats - " Seen easily enough from his seat on the bus, the odor of manure strong in the air when he had disembarked in the yard. " - vegetables for diversity, but mostly turnip and beet to feed to the animals if a winter goes hard or wrong. An ordinary farm, but you have another job in the Rural Service. You're a Detective Inspector," Yes, the boots, the argument, of _course!_ No woman wanted a husband who was could be on the road at any time, and for who knew how long. 

"Right," answered I.Lestrade, forehead creased and looking at Sherlock as if he had done something amazing. "You're coming with me to Crown Court tomorrow. John, see you in the morning, yeah?"

"Bright and early."

"Or at least early. Right, I'm off."

Sherlock silently mocked their easy banter. Yet another disappointingly simple pair of minds. No matter. He would rest, he would heal. And then he would see about getting sent back to Londinium.

 

4:

Tossing the stupid orange blanket aside, Sherlock approached John, amazed, quite amazed at what John had done for him. 

 

103:

I.Lestrade sat next to Sherlock. Sherlock coughed and spat, managed to rasp, "John?"

With a weak wave of one hand, I.Lestrade motioned towards the wrong bank of the river. Sherlock looked and yes, John was waving back even as he was being helped onto a stretcher, the ambulance crew dawdling and tucking various medical items back into their black bags instead of getting John to hospital posthaste.

"He'll be fine," said I.Lestrade, collapsing backwards into the reeds. 

Sherlock hawked and spat again, trying to get the awful taste of river mud out of his mouth. There were no roads or bridges on this side, they were going to have to swim it, once I.Lestrade was rested enough. Speaking of whom - "This is no time to fall asleep, Lestrade," 

When no reply was forthcoming, Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see what the man was doing. Why, nothing. Just lying there in the reeds, silent. "Lestrade? _Lestrade?_ "

 

271:

Londinium was no different from when he had left it. 

Actually, that wasn't true; the difference was in him, this time. He had a flat, and a potential housemate, if John proved amenable. The farm was but a distant memory (although he was still fond of the bees), and Mycroft had kept his promise and bought Sherlock out of his contract. 

In this respect they were both free.

Of course, in his mind palace he had always been free, and yet…there was a palpable difference in being free, physically, too. He didn't like to dwell on it, what could have been. 

Parcel of chips in hand, Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, pleased ( _happy_ ) to be _home_. He had solved the case, a man was going to Seagate Prison at Her Majesty's pleasure, and Mycroft had given him the gift of a microscope and an account with an online firm for the necessary chemicals and solutions. In addition, D.Stamford had sent him an open invitation to visit Barts whenever he liked, which was unexpected and very pleasing. D.Stamford was clearly an avid reader of the release pages in the papers - why? Sherlock decided he would deduce it when he visited D.Stamford's office. The man had always been overly friendly, for reasons Sherlock could not comprehend. After all, D.Stamford had only spent one year at HM.Moran's, he had been friendly with everyone.

Heading directly into the kitchen, Sherlock unwrapped his chips, found the malt vinegar and sprinkled it on, following quickly with a good and gritty pinch of salt. He ate a chip and felt satisfaction spread through him in the same way the salt and vinegar curled his tongue. Londinium. Yes.

"Hope you got some for the two of us."

Sherlock spun around to find John standing on the far side of the kitchen table, hands on his hips, face flushed, hair mussed, looking quite thoroughly amused. Behind him a shadow moved into the light - I.Lestrade. He was equally disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned - oh.

He was aware that John and I.Lestrade had a relationship that occasionally became sexual. In the farmhouse it had been difficult to miss the noises, as John was very vocal no matter with whom he slept. Mostly women. Sherlock wasn't sure why I.Lestrade was the exception. He wasn't sure why they were both in his flat, doing what they were doing. More importantly, given that his desk lamp was on, how had he not noticed the two of them on the couch? Between the fluorescent over the sink and the golden yellow light cast by the lamp, the room was hardly pitch black. He was going to have to eat less often if food was such a distraction.

"I think we've shocked him," said I.Lestrade, stepping around John and the table to steal a chip. "Mm, you get this from the place down the street? Fucking fantastic. Christ, I've got to get some of these for myself."

"There's money in my jacket," answered John, not looking away from Sherlock. 

"Right, back in a tick."

Neither Sherlock nor John spoke while I.Lestrade retrieved money and shoes and jacket. When the downstairs door closed, Sherlock finally moved. He pushed into John's space aggressively, the contentedness of only a few moments before completely gone. He wanted to tell John to get out. Instead, what came out of his mouth was "Why, John? Why here? Doesn't he have a home to go to instead?"

The corner of John's mouth lifted, then he reached forward and took Sherlock by the back of his neck and pulled his head down and kissed him, John kissed him and kissed him and Sherlock felt his heart slamming into his chest wall like a wild creature. He broke away, gasping, sucking in deep, heavy breaths, wiping his wet mouth and not really sure if he was still standing or falling very slowly.

"C'mon, this way, before you hit the floor."

John took him by the arm and led him to the sofa, where Sherlock sat down suddenly, as if his legs had gone to jelly.

"All right?" asked John, bending a little to peer at Sherlock's face. 

"You kissed me," blurted Sherlock, staring back up at him. "Why?"

"You don't know?" 

Judging by the frown on John's face, Sherlock had obviously missed something of importance. What, though?

"Christ," John wiped his face with his hand, then scratched the back of his head. "Okay, um, because I've wanted to for a long time?"

"Is that a question or a statement?"

"Both, you thick git."

Oh. Well. Alright. "And Lestrade?"

"He likes you, too. But not as much as I do."

Interesting. "You're moving in, then?"

"If you still want me to."

"Of course I do," answered Sherlock. He stood up again. John didn't move, and Sherlock didn't move either, because he wanted to be kissed again. He was relieved, because there was no way he could afford the rent on his own. Yet there was still the subject of I.Lestrade. "He can't move in, he already has a flat. The house with his wife, too, and that farm."

John chuckled. He glanced down, looked up again, "I want a lot of things, Sherlock."

"Sexually?" Sherlock watched John's eyes darken and felt an answering thrum within. "I'm agreeable."

"You don't even know what they are!"

"No, but I can hazard a guess," Oh _yes_ , yes he could. In fact, he would be more than happy to make suggestions. His experiences at HM.Moran's had not all been unwilling.

The downstairs door slammed shut, a "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson!" shouted down the hall as I.Lestrade pounded up the steps. 

"And Lestrade?" asked Sherlock once again. He watched John smile with his teeth showing, like a predator. Nothing new there. John was a beautiful killing machine, there should be no exception in bed as there was none out of it. And I.Lestrade had been the best master of a bad bunch. He was rather shouty, and altogether too forgiving of his cheating wife. Their relationship was an ever present mystery that Sherlock had yet to solve, which remained frustrating. I.Lestrade had no interest in keeping Sherlock, either. As soon as Mycroft had presented the papers (he had come down in one of his black cars in a show of power), I.Lestrade had signed them with no hesitation whatsoever apart from a comment about the misuse of the Government fleet. Sherlock thought that if maybe I.Lestrade had known their family circumstances, he would have suggested the opposite, instead.

"What about Lestrade?" said I.Lestrade, kicking the door closed with his foot. Both hands were full with thin white carrier bags of wrapped, grease-stained packages, two bottles of Lucozade, a six pack of Tennants, another of Newcastle Brown and a bottle of wine on top of that. As if Sherlock were going to drink wine from the corner store.

"You were right," called John.

"Yeah?" I.Lestrade put the bags on the kitchen table, taking a moment to sling the beer and wine into the refrigerator before joining them in front of the couch. He looked from Sherlock to John. "Told you so, mate. Do I get a prize?"

"You know you do," said John, reaching for I.Lestrade's belt. 

Sherlock watched John's hands pull the tongue one way, releasing the prong from the hole, the entire belt slithering out of I.Lestrade's belt loops with the slightest wisp of leather on fabric. Should he involve himself at this stage, or remain a bystander? He waited, stood there like a fool while John and I.Lestrade devoured one another's mouths. He licked his lips, decided to ignore a pang of hunger. Food could wait. Tonight hunger of another kind had a chance to be satiated.

I.Lestrade shivered, reaching out to Sherlock as if his balance was off. Sherlock could understand that, having now been on the receiving end of a John Watson kiss. John finished sucking a bruise onto I.Lestrade's neck and turned towards Sherlock. He smiled, ever so slightly, looking at Sherlock through his lashes, and Sherlock was lost, lost, lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Different fandom, but set in the same universe as [A Fine Summer's Day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2235039).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6594865) by [yourdykeinshiningarmor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdykeinshiningarmor/pseuds/yourdykeinshiningarmor)




End file.
